Zeus Strikes the Penurious

Sometimes in this languid life, the gods speak to me. It’s usually in the little things: the crisp brush of wind against my cheek, a glorious storm, the gentle braying of a sheep. Often the messages are so small, so minute, that I hardly recognize them as they shimmer by, little wisps of ephemeral missives that vanish like bubbles when poked. But on beauteous and rare occasions, the voice is so vividly clear that I cannot help but be still, and listen, and know.

Like when a bird shat on my face.

When I say a bird shat on my face, I am not lisping in hypertext. A bird did not sit on my face. A bird shit on my face. To clear up any lingering uncertainty, let me be blunt: from the rectum of a small and impertinent bird came excrement onto my upturned, unsuspecting upper lip.

If it weren’t for the particular course of events leading up to the incident, I wouldn’t attribute this to divine intervention. After all, millions of people get shit on every day, literally and figuratively. In all likelihood, the gods or God or “the higher power” (if you’re in AA) have very little to do with it. But my bird-shit-on-face experience came with a particularly poignant moral lesson attached. It was no coincidence, no arbitrary cosmic occurrence, and certainly no gentle nudging from the big guy above. There was nothing subtle about it; the whole method was very (pardon the pun) in-your-face. It was a blatant wake-up call, a more environmentally conscious and cost-effective alternative to a burning bush.

We’ve all heard that God will “smite the faithless” and “burn the wicked” and so on. There’s a whole assortment of action-packed mandates for all those poor, unfortunately-adjectived souls. Well here’s one you may not have heard: God will birdshit the penurious.

I was walking out of the Boston bus station with a slice of sizzling pizza in hand, suitcase trailing behind me. What a lovely day, I thought, enjoying the warm sea breeze on my skin. Sauntering into a seductive sliver of sunshine, I nestled myself on a park bench to munch my vegetarian delight in pleasant solitude.

No sooner had I sat down than a couple approached me. They were young—not much older than I—and the man was semi-supporting the woman’s weight. She looked unwell and distracted, her disheveled hair pulled back into an oily ponytail. They were both dressed in ill-fitting flanell shirts. He held her hand tightly, and she gripped his to the bone.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, stopping in front of me. “I’m trying to get my girlfriend home to Springfield on a bus. Do you have $4.80 you could spare us?”

For a moment I experienced a dichotomous tug in my chest. $4.80 wasn’t that much—I had a few bucks, right? She really did look sick, and he seemed so earnest…

But then I remembered the last time I’d given money to someone who asked for it. A woman had begged me for a few dollars to buy food, and after I’d emptied my pockets, I continued across the street for a bowl of soup. From the restaurant’s window I watched as the woman walked directly into a liquor store and emerged with a brown paper bag in hand. I nearly choked on my clam chowder. At that moment, I swore I would never give money to a beggar again.

That was it: I was going to stick to my guns. I would say no. I swallowed my heart and looked the man straight in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to master a chilly nonchalance in my voice. “I’d like to help you, but a woman cheated me a few years ago and I promised myself I wouldn’t give money to anyone again.”

As I was pronouncing my edict, I had the most curious sensation. It wasn’t that I felt free, or even that I was consumed by guilt. Rather, the sensation was physical: it was warm and wet.

The expression on the man’s face was undergoing a strange transformation, too. Before he had looked beseeching; now he looked mildly horrified. I felt a pang of regret. I must have truly offended him. So much so that he and his girlfriend were slowly backing away, continuing to gape at me as if I were some kind of cruel and merciless Medusa.

Strange, I thought to myself. I feel like part of my pizza is on my face.

I reached up to try and wipe away what I thought was a wayward piece of cheese or tomato on my upper lip. But upon examining my fingers, they came back covered in sabulous green gloop. What’s green on my pizza? I mused. I didn’t order pesto.

And then I knew.

A bird had just shit on my face. The couple had seen the bird shit on my face. They knew before I knew that a bird had shit on my face. Most of the shit was still sitting on my face, resting contentedly on my upper lip. I had no napkin. How mortifying.

My appetite vanished quite suddenly. I smeared the rest of the mess from my face onto the top of the pizza box and chucked the whole ensemble into the nearest trashcan. I tried to think about not throwing up.

I am a stingy and parsimonious bitch, I realized with sudden immediacy. And I am being punished for it.

The point is, whoever’s up there is getting creative. Zeus utilized thunderbolts, the Egyptian god Set forfeited a testicle to begat the desert, and the God of the Old Testament sent locusts, boils, and bloody water. Today’s god squad is following suit. Instead of opting for anything complex or technologically advanced, modern deities are electing to return to the good ol’ days of animals, body parts, and pestilence. The current emphasis is on heavensent humiliation using standard household ingredients. It’s even organic!

Next time someone asks for money, I think I’ll give it. Nothing like a little birdshit to bring generosity back with a splat.

~ by Bree on September 26, 2007.